Carla
By Mark Newman  marknew742@aol.com 
My third FM story, posted on AAWA in 1995


Introductory note (April 2002)

Lingster alerted me to the fact that I have never posted this story on Diana's
site. I don't know why I didn't. I wrote this in the Spring of 1995 and posted
it to AAWA soon afterwards via anon.penet.fi, an "anonymous remailer." It was
one of my few realistic stories. If it sounds like a real life experience, it
pretty much was. I'll let you know where I embellished it in a note at the
end.

For some reason, I felt at the time I had to defend my use of fantasy in
stories. It seem ridiculous to me now: I write what I enjoy, simple as that.
Lingster thought I should drop the explanation, but since it was part of the
reason I wrote the story the way I did, I decided to leave it in. But the
story does stand by itself, and if you want to skip the sermon, just skip to
the three asterisks (***) and start reading there.

Introductory note (May 1995)

I have written a few fantasies about encounters with amazons and have received
a lot of positive E-mail, although I have also seen a fair bit of complaints
posted about "unrealistic" stories. Given the very small number of stories
that are posted *at all* I could suggest that we all should just take what we
can get. Write your own if you don't like what you see. I could say that, but
I won't.

Whether realistic or fantastic, the basic ingredients of these stories are the
same, so long as the descriptions, the build up, the feelings, etc., are well
done. Personally, I haven't seen any stories here I haven't liked in one way
or another. Reading about being physically dominated by a powerful woman, as
opposed to willingly submitting to being tied down by a normal, weak woman, is
a turn on for me. Whether she got to be unusually strong by alien devices,
magic, mysterious drugs or good genes and healthy, wholesome exercise is
beside the point, at least to me.

I'm not a big fan of psychology, I won't theorize about why you or I find this
exciting. I just accept that for me it is. But the fact is that early on I did
have a kind of relationship with a strong girl. Maybe trying to reproduce
something in that experience explains this fetish. Maybe it doesn't. But this
is what happened.

***

Carla Walsh lived about a block away from me. She was a tomboy, and when I was
five or so, she hung out with the four or five boys I would run around with.
She was about a year older than we were and was stronger and faster, although
she threw "like a girl" and couldn't hit a ball. As we grew older and our
games centered on baseball and football we saw less of her, especially because
she was in another grade.

But when I started middle school, I was surprised to see Carla in my history
class. It turned out that her family had traveled abroad the previous year and
the school in Africa had been a complete waste of time. As a result, Carla was
moved back to my grade. She was tall, with long, black hair, broad shoulders,
and completely flat-chested. She felt awkward and somewhat embarrassed to be
in that class, and I must admit I didn't make it any easier for her. I was
having my own adjustment problems and the last thing I wanted to do was to be
identified with a girl who had been left back. After trying a few times to get
my attention, she got the message and left me alone, and within a few months
had gotten involved with her own circle, as had I.

I didn't see much of her the next few years. I was in the "smart" track and
picked my friends from that group. Carla wasn't stupid, but wasn't motivated
or interested enough to be in that group.

I had the usual adolescent ups and downs, and in ninth grade I seemed to hit a
wall in terms of social life. The leading girls of our pack discovered older,
high school boys, and suddenly they dropped my friends and me from their party
set. Adjusting was hard, but after a year or so I found new groups that
focused on some of my hobbies, like bicycling and music. It turned out that
Carla was also part of the bicycling set, and I started to see her regularly
on Saturday rides to the beach or in parks. We weren't dating, but we would
often ride together and talk about various things. Carla still looked like a
tomboy. She was as tall as I was, although she weighed about twenty pounds
less. Her legs were long and muscular. Her breasts were small, but they looked
nice on her lean frame. Her only flaw was a middling complexion. I never
looked at her arms.

I had no romantic or sexual interest in her. She was a good cyclist and easy
to talk with, and that was all I was aware of. My fantasies were about other
girls - small-waisted artists with large breasts who would anticipate every
move I wanted but feared to make. Strangely, there were few of those girls
around.

Carla called me up regularly to get together. I enjoyed tennis too, and soon
Carla and I began to play twice a week. She had a strong, masculine game with
a hard serve, and we played fairly evenly, although I usually won. One summer
night when I was about fifteen we decided to bicycle to the beach after it
became too dark to play tennis. We sat on the rocks, listening to the waves
and not talking much. Suddenly, I felt Carla's hand on my shoulder and she
leaned over and kissed me. She took my other hand and, somewhat shyly, placed
it on her small breast.

I confess that this was a golden opportunity for me, almost like a fantasy
come true, but with the wrong person. I didn't think of Carla that way. I
didn't want to be her boyfriend; I didn't want her to be my girlfriend. I
didn't want anyone to see us as a couple. I don't know why; I just had a
strong reaction against her. I pulled my hand and face away from her and stood
up. She looked hurt and embarrassed and looked down at the sand. We didn't say
anything for a few minutes, then she got up and walked quickly to her bicycle
and sped away.

I felt kind of ridiculous. What's the harm, I thought. I just blew a chance to
get some great experience. Who knows how far it could have gone. She's not so
bad looking. I got on my bicycle and followed her, but she had gotten too big
a head start and I gave up. As I rode, my mood changed again. I felt I did the
right thing. Carla wasn't my kind of girl.

I felt relieved and headed over to Tom's house to tell him the story. Tom was
one of my "smart" friends, and laughed that I would even consider Carla.
"Jesus Brad, if you're going to go out with a girl without a brain, at least
pick one with some tits!" I let him go on and on. The next day at school, it
seemed that everyone knew the story. I saw Carla from a distance. She glared
at me and turned her back. I knew I had done something wrong, but I couldn't
quite figure out how I should have handled it. 'Oh well, fuck it!' I decided.

Out of what I thought would be mutual awkwardness, I stopped seeing Carla
completely, as well as the rest of the bicycle group. A few weeks later I
injured myself in gym class and for a long time afterwards I was limited in my
physical activity. I got more involved in music, the arts, preparing my list
of extracurriculars for college and the like. I had a great summer romance
with a mysterious artistic girl with large breasts, and then dated a flaky
poet for several months of the school year. I completely lost track of Carla.

The part of the story you've been waiting for (patiently I hope) is coming.
Obviously I don't remember what we said word for word, but you can bet that
what I put down here is pretty close.

Senior year was ending. My leg was healed and I started to work out a bit
again, although now that I had my driver's license I rarely used my bicycle.
Unlike today, my friends scoffed at the idea of exercise, and, partly because
of my injury and partly due to laziness, I went along.

I had pretty much closed the book on high school. I was looking forward to
starting college in the fall and that spring was a time of parties and fun.
Grades were irrelevant; homework was ignored. Almost every night my friends
and I would drive to the beach, bring some music and girls and dance or get
stoned. A few times I had an odd feeling I was being watched, but I figured it
was just the paranoia from using marijuana in a semi-public place.

One Saturday we drove to a deserted beach. My friends were stoned. I wasn't,
because I had driven my parent's car. I felt like getting my feet wet in the
waves, so I wandered away from my friends, down to the water. I heard some
splashing and I turned around to see who was behind me. It was Carla.

I said hi. She nodded and asked about my leg. I hopped on it a few times to
show her it was better. She took in the information and gestured toward my
friends.

"They're a pretty stuck up crowd. I can't believe you spend all your time with
them."

"They're alright. We have a lot of fun."

"They're always smoking dope. Are you high too?"

"Not tonight."

"I think it's really disgusting. You know, it's really bad for you."

I shrugged. "Who says so? You believe all that stuff the President's wife
says?"

She looked at me evenly. "I was sorry about your leg. Are you getting back in
shape?"

"Yeah. As much as I have to be. I haven't been into sports much. How have you
been?"

"Great. I work out all the time, every day I can. You know, on the weight
machine the school bought."

"You do that? I didn't know girls were allowed to. I thought it was just for
the football team." Actually, now that she mentioned it, I remembered hearing
some stories about Carla and that machine.

She laughed. "Don't be silly. Anyone can use it. You ought to."

"Aren't you worried about how it'll make you look?"

'Like, you mean, ruin my social life? Ha! You took care of that all by
yourself."

"Me?"

"Spreading the story about how I threw myself at you. Begged you to fuck me."

"Carla! I"

"And then ignoring me. You never spoke to me again. Everybody knows."

"I never said that."

She grunted. "All I know is you never denied it." She looked out over the
waves. "I really liked you. I thought we got along great."

I didn't say anything. I heard some of my friends approaching. "Hey, Brad. Is
that Carla? She still after your ass?"

I turned around. "Shut up guys."

They laughed and walked away.

Carla frowned. "They're such jerks."

"You're wrong. You just don't know them."

"And you even defend them! Don't you even have any pride?"

I turned my back on her. I didn't want to listen to her trash my friends. I
heard her splashing through the water, and then she was standing next to me. I
noticed I was looking up to her.

"What? Are you still growing?"

She nodded. "About an inch a year. I figured you'd be smaller than me." She
put her hand on my upper arm and squeezed it. "You're small there too, and
soft."

"That hurts," I said. I tried to pull my arm away, but she was holding it
fast. Instead, she held me closer to her and bent her head down slightly to
kiss me on the mouth. Her other arm circled around my back and drew me against
her. I heard my friends hooting at me from further down the beach and with my
free hand, I pushed against her.

She squeezed my arm more tightly and broke off the kiss. She looked down at
me, mouth set. "It's stupid of me. After all that's happened, I still like
you." She looked me up and down, taking in my stony gaze. "I don't know what's
wrong with me. You're totally indifferent. Tell me. What would embarrass you
more, Brad, to have your friends watch you make out with me, or for me to make
you submit in front of them?"

"Are you crazy?"

"I could do it, you know. We were pretty evenly matched two years ago, but
since then you've been just sitting on your butt, blowing your trumpet and
smoking and drinking. Maybe your lips get a workout, but that's it. I could
whip your butt if I wanted."

"No way Carla. I used to beat you in tennis every time."

Carla didn't say anything. She looked at me, lips pursed, chin firm, mind
racing. Then, decisively, she slipped her hands under my arms and lifted me in
the air, suspending me three or four inches off the ground.

"What do you weigh? Hundred-fifty? Hundred-sixty? This is nothing for me." She
dropped me. "Go on, try to pick me up. I'll bend my knees so you can reach
under my arms more easily." I looked over at my friends, standing about
twenty-five feet away, enjoying the show with their stoned expressions. I
gritted my teeth and put my hands in her underarms, noticing the breadth of
her chest and feeling the muscle, even around the sides of her chest. Bracing
myself, I tried to lift her, in vain.

"Of course, I probably weigh about thirty pounds more than you, my being
taller and muscle weighing more than fat. Still think you can take me? Huh?
We'll see."

She reached down for my waist and lifted me up again, then threw me down on
the wet sand and in an instant she was lying across my chest, pinning my legs
with hers and holding down both my arms with her left one. She unbuckled my
pants with her free hand and pulled them off my legs, then undid the buttons
on my shirt and pulled it open and started licking my chest.

"What are you doing, Carla?"

"I'm doing what I want to do. Why don't you try to stop me? Or can't you?"

I started getting really angry. I tried to roll her off me, but with her
position, I could see I was just wasting my energy and stopped. She looked
disappointed.

"Giving up already?"

"I can't get you off me. You caught me by surprise, but that's all."

"You think so?" She rolled off my chest, but still held my arms down. "Try it
now."

I struggled to get free, but she was still holding me down, with her right arm
alone pinning both my wrists in the sand. She lay on her side and ran her left
hand down my stomach and lightly over my crotch. Unrestrained by my bluejeans,
my dick rose up to meet her hand.

"Look at the power I have over you. Something's turning you on. Do you like my
strength? Do you like being dominated?" I shook my head vigorously and looked
over at my friends for help. They were sitting down, completely passive. One
was asleep. "They wouldn't help you. Besides, I could take them too if I
wanted. They're a bunch of weaklings, like you are now." She unzipped her
windbreaker and holding the sleeve with her teeth slipped her left arm out. I
could see the outlines of muscle in her forearm, with heavy blue veins running
up her arm and atop her bicep. "Want to see how big I am?"

I was curious, although I didn't want to admit it to her. The truth was, I did
like to sneak glances at girls' muscles, although they were definitely a
distant third on my list of body parts, after breasts and asses. Amy Blackman,
who was part of the AP science track I was in, had an unusual combination of
round, high breasts, a tight ass, and an oddly thick bicep that kind of
intimidated me. In early fall and late spring, I always looked forward to the
warm days when she would wear short sleeves and I could see her muscles
tighten when she lifted her books. Thinking about Amy made me even harder, and
Carla looked down and saw the jump in my crotch and a small stain spreading on
my briefs.

"Boys are so obvious. You just can't hide anything from me. Well, here goes."
She lifted her arm up to her mouth to pull down the sleeve of her t-shirt even
further. I could already see her large bicep freed from the confines of the
shirt as she moved her arm. But I was unprepared for its size when she flexed
it. It towered over her upper arm like two fists stacked on top of each other.
She tightened and relaxed it a couple of times like she was warming up, and
then slowly flexed it a third time. I could see the veins pulse as it seemed
to rise even higher in the air. I stared. I had never seen a muscle like that
in my life. It seemed to dance, like it had a life of its own. The power in
that arm fascinated me, even as the power of her other one held me down,
helpless in the sand.

Carla looked proud. "I've never let anyone see it. I always work out in loose
clothes. I didn't want the whole school talking about me again. I don't even
use as much weight on the machine as I could until the weight room's empty,
but I know that I can lift more than any boy in the school. I've thought about
doing this for months." She relaxed her arm again and let it drift down to my
dick again, which strained even more against my briefs. She reached into the
opening and pulled it through. She stroked it again, lightly. My hips rose to
get closer to her hand, but she looked me in the eye, smiled and then took her
hand away. "Uh-uh. You're not getting that satisfaction from me." With that
she sprang up, lifting me along with her, and propelled me toward my friends.
I fell and turned around. Carla had rezipped her windbreaker and was walking
away. I took a look at them, then ran back toward Carla, stopping only to put
on my pants and my loafers.

"Carla. Wait!"

She stopped for a moment, then put her hand on my chest and pushed me, hard. I
flew backwards and fell into the sand.

"I don't want you anymore. I wanted to see if I could make you want me. Find
someone else now, if you can, to give you what I won't." She walked away.

I sat on the ground, watching her tall lean body walk grandly down the beach
toward her bicycle and then pump powerfully away.

Post-note (April 2002)

Well, Carla never went to Africa. I skipped a year of school. That's how I
ended up in her grade. I never played the trumpet, although I did play piano,
guitar and the violin, and my artistic contribution in high school was in the
theater. And was I wasn't stoned THAT much in high school, and Carla's muscle
wasn't as big as two fists. More like one fist.

That last scene is quite an embellishment. What really happened was much less
overtly sexual. Carla had been following me. She did find me on the beach. She
did push me around in front of my friends, and she did make fun of my relative
lack of conditioning. That was it. I was embarrassed in front of my friends.

But after that happened, we became friends again, somehow, and I saw a lot of
her during the last summer before high school. Something in what she said
about my friends rang true and I saw a little less of them. We started playing
tennis again and I actually started to beat her as I got into shape. She hit
the ball hard, but tended to hit it out a lot too. She liked being strong and
enjoyed hitting it hard more than winning. Or maybe she wanted me to win while
showing off how strong she was. I'll never know. Between tennis and the beach
I had a lot of opportunities to look at her arms, and I did, but I never went
further than that. And she never made the first move.

After high school, we went to different schools of course. She went to a state
teachers college and I went to a "prestigious" out of town school. I ran into
Carla a few times but two stand out. Once, on a commuter train late at night,
I found myself in a three-seater, with Carla in the middle and another high
school friend of hers on the other end. We were talking about what sports we
were still doing -- I had dropped bicycling pretty much but had picked up
running and still played tennis. Carla's friend wasn't doing much. Carla said
she was playing squash and working out at the gym. Her friend asked her if she
was still as strong as she used to be, and Carla said, "stronger!" Yes, the
inevitable biceps display followed, although sadly it was winter and she
wasn't sleeveless or wearing a short sleeved shirt. Still, her sleeves were
tight enough that the substantial rise in her upper arm was clearly visible.
We each got our turn to feel her tight muscle, and since by then I was well
down the road of self-knowledge as to my fetish, I got in as much as I could
without arousing suspicion, although something else definitely got aroused. We
both made the obligatory remarks of admiration, and Carla said something like,
"see, girls can get pretty strong too." Then the moment passed and the
conversation turned to other things.

The other meeting was our last one, and was not at all exciting. It was in a
supermarket near my parents' house. I was with my wife, shopping for a few
things for a dinner my mother was going to cook, and we ran into Carla with
her two children. We talked for a few minutes. She had given up teaching but
still played squash. That was it. It was probably over 15 years ago and I
haven't heard anything about her since.